The Decline

by Jessulat, Christopher

  Sullivan searched the faces of his companions for a similar disgust. Quinn’s persistent fury struck an uneasy chord; he couldn’t help but feel uncomfortable at the display.

  Isaac met his gaze, but didn’t return his concern. He calmly wiped the gore from his blade against his sleeve.

  Cox watched, wholly indifferent.

  The other gunner turned his gaze to the snow and hugged his rifle.

  Sleet began to fall from the skies. It pattered against the various artificial fabrics of their jackets and against the sheet metal roof of the shooting platform adjacent.

  Quinn continued to batter the corpse.

  No one spoke.

  At last, with nothing left to bludgeon, Quinn slowly rose. His chest heaved and his eyes were wild with animosity. The corner of his mouth curled upwards into a vicious grin and he subtly swayed as his weight shifted between his feet. His face was peppered and streaked with splatters of blood and sleet, which appeared all the more pronounced against a face reddened with exertion.

  Quinn’s unblinking eyes never faltered.

  ***

  It was long past midnight, but no stars were visible. The mixture of snow and sleet continued well into the night as the dense clouds lingered and prevented any light from shining through.

  Jacob sat, knees bent, propped against a wall in the corner of the room.

  He found no sleep tonight.

  He stared at a bottle of water on the floor between his feet. He had enjoyed some success earlier in the day, and knew they had a few days’ worth of water, but still he resisted his body’s ache to hydrate.

  He could wait a little longer.

  He lifted the corner of a heavy woolen blanket they had nailed over the room’s solitary window and peered outside.

  The darkness was complete as the sleet continued to rap against the aged flat roof above him and the vintage glass window to his left. As the night deepened, the corners of the window had started to ice over. The condensation from his breath fogged the glass as he stared into the cold abyss.

  A single pillar candle sputtered in the center of the room. Despite the sparse furnishings, it cast far stranger shadows than he expected.

  Jacob dropped the corner of the blanket so it once again covered the entire window; the heavy woven fabric muffled the sleet as it beat against the glass. He produced a cigarette from his coat and pulled an engraved Zippo lighter from his pocket and lit up.

  He drew a long, slow drag, and allowed the acrid smoke to fill his lungs and warm his insides. Jacob hated the taste of cigarettes, but it helped assuage his hunger.

  They were on the ragged edge.

  Two figures slept restlessly on the floor in a makeshift bed; a collection of stained couch cushions and piecemeal blankets.

  Jacob drew another long haul off the cigarette, closed his eyes and exhaled slowly through his nose. The warmth of the smoke licked his skin and clung to his face.

  They had found their hermitage by chance.

  The barracks safe zone collapsed around them and those left alive were abandoned to the wasteland of the central peninsula. In the chaos, Jacob and a small band found themselves together in their midnight exile – they ran blindly from their failed refuge into the deep darkness of the cityscape.

  Only three survived that night.

  Jacob rested the hand which held the cigarette on his knee and leaned his head back against the wall. He turned his gaze downward and watched the smoke curl in the candlelight.

  They needed refuge; somewhere to hunker down and catch their breath. Exhaustion had set in. They hadn’t the strength to fight.

  He led them into a two storey building with a single entrance; he knew it would be easier to defend. The entry hallway led to a staircase with the ground floor unit off the main corridor. On the second floor they found a three bedroom apartment that made little attempt to hide its age; it was dingy and unkempt, sparsely furnished, full of cheap period fixtures and nicotine-stained wallpaper. The windows were ancient and drafty, but Jacob paid no attention to the chill.

  The previous occupants were long gone. They must have been in the process of moving out when the outbreak hit, abandoning this place for the final time.

  Jacob selected the smallest bedroom of the three as their camp. A single entrance, a single window that overlooked the street, and a tiny closet with a folding door that hung limp, embarrassed that it had fallen off its track.

  A plain desk sat against the wall opposite with a few empty cardboard boxes adjacent. The three had pillaged the unit and brought the limited trappings of comfort to their little hovel.

  Each morning at first light, Jacob would leave the others to scavenge. He didn’t know them before the night they shared in exile; had never seen either during life at the barracks or at the harbour safe zone previous to that.

  It didn’t change the fact he felt responsible for them now.

  Jacob took another drag of his cigarette and glanced over to the nest where the two slept, truly unsure if they’d ever open their eyes again.

  Emily never seemed to wake from her nightmare.

  Madison seemed capable, at least.

  Jacob trusted he could leave Emily with her as he canvassed the surrounding buildings for the supplies to keep them going. Madison would carefully arrange their provisions on the surface of the shabby desk; Jacob thought her compulsion for organization comical in the midst of the insanity outside. Whether it was out of a desire for a sense of normalcy, or to stave off a deeply ingrained sense of boredom was irrelevant.

  The compulsion was kind of cute.

  Endearing, even.

  A few bottles of water, assorted packaged snack foods, a few cans, miscellaneous tools, a roll of adhesive tape, and a mostly-empty first aid kit were all they had amassed in their efforts to get beyond scraping by day-to-day.

  The shadows flickered in the candlelight, grew tall and shrunk with the ebb of flame as it danced towards its ultimate end.

  ***

  The fence had been partially repaired, but additional material would be required to properly reset their defenses. Quinn had ordered additional civilian overnight shifts along the walls and in the nests. Aside from the sentries posted in the staircases and on each floor, everyone housed within the civilian quarters was long asleep.

  No one heard the several pairs of hard soled combat boots as they methodically climbed the staircases. As they approached each checkpoint, occasionally the civilian guards would chance to meet their gaze – though each could tell that this grim procession was not one they were meant to interrupt.

  The soldiers snaked wordlessly through the empty, slender corridors as they advanced towards their quarry, their footfalls faintly resounding off the cold concrete walls.

  When they arrived at their intended destination, the group splintered apart and flitted between the bunks until they came to the one they wanted. One of the soldiers subtly snapped his fingers and the others converged upon him.

  The occupant snored peacefully, curled up in a patchwork blanket on a nondescript cot, blissfully unaware.

  One of the soldiers silently unfurled a length of cloth and passed one end of it to the soldier standing opposite him. Together, they pulled the length taut. Without a sound, the pair wrested the fabric over the mouth and nose of the sleeping man as another grabbed his feet and pinned them down.

  The man hadn’t yet managed to shake the sleep from his eyes when he could process his true predicament. He thrashed helplessly under the weight of his attackers and choked out a pitiful cry through the heavy fabric that muzzled him.

  Anders managed to regain his faculties just long enough to register several shapes about him as a heavy blow from the butt end of a shotgun crashed down into his cheekbone.

  And back to sleep he went.

  Chapter 13

  The en
tire compound was on edge.

  Near every post pulled double shifts.

  The soldiers kept to themselves; they stalked the corridors and the grounds but interacted little with the civilian presence.

  A mutual distrust simmered beneath the superficial pleasantries.

  Rumours about the leadership permeated the civilian quarters.

  Quinn became reclusive; he spent long hours in isolation.

  Fanned by his absence, the tension mounted over the coming days.

  Additional guards were posted outside the supply shed as food and water rations were halved. Meals became fewer and further between.

  Whispers of Quinn’s deepening madness began to take root. They became foundational, part of the fabric of the compound.

  The civilians became uneasy, distrustful.

  Quinn worked them harder.

  Scuffles with the guard were more frequent, more violent.

  The officials increasingly relied on intimidation and shows of force to keep order.

  The civilians began to openly dispute command.

  Quinn’s grip was loosening.

  His authority could no longer be questioned.

  Martial law.

  ***

  Daniel pondered over the patient’s chart and woefully considered the infirmary’s meager resources. While he was a promising student pre-outbreak, and as clever and capable as any among the compound’s medical staff, his practical medical training had always been served in well-stocked hospitals. Though he could suggest a multitude of ideas on how to treat the swelling ranks of those needing care, without the inventory available – it simply wasn’t feasible. Neither his theoretical nor his practical training had ever emphasized situations remotely reminiscent to this. The salvage team hadn’t managed to bring back much of the list they had been tasked with, and the commotion at the wall only threw this reality into sharp relief.

  He could mostly tolerate the presence of armed guards, accepted their necessity in a world where the dead infected would rise and hunger for flesh. He could even understand the callous disregard for the reanimated his fellow survivors felt. Even though most considered the living dead’s existence an abomination, Daniel still thought of them as people afflicted by an incurable malady.

  Though he had no illusions about treatment.

  Nor did he question the generally prescribed way to deal with the infected.

  Shit, we’ve all seen movies.

  During life at the compound, Daniel had even grown accustomed to sporadic gunfire – almost to the point of an oblivious comfort.

  Through it all, though, he had yet to grow accustomed to losing a patient. Each life lost – irrespective of the cause – weighed heavily upon him. Even the end of the known fucking world wasn’t an adequate excuse.

  Daniel mostly contained those frustrations – he didn’t have much choice.

  Through cataloguing the infirmary’s inventory, it became obvious to Daniel that they’d soon be forced into some difficult cost/benefit analysis – the outcome of which would likely be grim. He didn’t want to burden Keeley with the notion, nor Isaac with the consequence of their penniless return… but without successful resupply soon, the infirmary would be hard pressed to justify the expenditure of medical resources on many under their care.

  Daniel watched across the room as Keeley sat with Isaac. Though Isaac was afforded a place of some comfort and given a chance to rest in a cot while most others were relegated to the floor, he had given it up to another patient and sat on a window ledge instead.

  Isaac had either cracked or broken a few ribs; the area bruising was significant. Prescription-quality painkillers were in short supply – Isaac accepted some generic, over-the-counter ibuprofen when he was admitted, but otherwise made no request nor offered complaint.

  He’d be fine in a few more days, but he wouldn’t be comfortable.

  Keeley didn’t ask about the run.

  It was clear it hadn’t gone as planned.

  She gave Isaac a quick kiss on the forehead and pressed her hand to his chest before replacing her particulate mask and resuming her rounds.

  As Isaac sat and watched the infirmary staff, he quietly lamented their failure.

  The beds were full, and the space seemed to overflow with casualties.

  Though Keeley teetered on the brink of collapse, she worked every waking hour to ease the suffering of those patients.

  Isaac watched helplessly as she moved about the infirmary.

  ***

  Only dimly aware of his surroundings, Anders hadn’t opened his eyes in a long time.

  His hands were outstretched and wrists bound on either side.

  Everything was dark, but he thought he could feel the heat of a fluorescent lamp above him.

  He was hooded; the fabric clung to his skin in a claustrophobic mess, damp and muggy with some morbid combination of his sweat, tears and blood.

  His tongue was swollen and thick with the taste of rust. As it moved about his mouth it came to rest in over a space previously occupied by several molars.

  He sputtered awake, coughed hoarsely into the shroud.

  Anders felt a stab of pain in his jaw; it didn’t close quite right. The hinge was off.

  His head swam from the pain and lolled forward.

  Anders tried to bring a hand to his dislocated jaw but found them to be tightly secured to a metal frame with what felt like electrical wire.

  ‘Wakey, wakey…,’ chided a voice Anders struggled to recognize.

  The words dripped, venomous with insult and ill intent.

  Anders coughed again; spat some of his stale blood into the hood.

  He moved to speak, but the terrible stab in his jaw stole the words.

  A pitiful whimper was all he could manage.

  Anders couldn’t be sure, but he thought he heard more than one set of laughter.

  ‘No, no…,’ cooed the same voice, ‘you’re not done yet.’

  There was a brief pause to let the implications settle in.

  ‘You’ve still got a bill to pay.’

  ***

  As he surveyed the compound from the central nest, Sullivan sipped on a cup of boiled water. The civilians had taken to supplementing their water intake by melting any patches of snow in the compound that looked clean enough to consume.

  Sully scratched at his beard, felt the tangle of his red-blond whiskers as he watched the steam curl from his mug.

  He found himself paired with the other SKS gunner from the hospital run with increasing frequency. The official’s faith in them meant that even under the edict of martial law they were trusted alone and with weaponry. They were far from friends, but Sullivan trusted his mettle.

  Erik had been working as a part time barista when the world went to shit, just happened to have the good fortune of working Uptown. He was a lot younger than he looked – Sullivan would have given him at least another ten years – but in reality he was just a child, a couple years out of high school.

  Every time he looked at the kid there was a sting of lament.

  Another reminder of the countless lives cut short.

  What kind of world is this to grow into?

  He should be worried about meeting girls and paying rent, not where his next meal would come from, or whether or not he’d be eaten alive by some infected ghoul today.

  Sullivan shook such thoughts from his head.

  ‘So… martial law,’ Erik breathed as he produced a cigarette from the folds of his jacket.

  Sullivan disregarded the comment, not interested in taking the bait.

  Erik rested the cigarette between his lips as he dug for a lighter.

  ‘Fuck, if people only knew,’ he mumbled as he lit up.

  Sullivan cocked his head to regard his partner more directly.

/>   Erik replied with a wary look, as if unable to decide whether or not he could trust in his partner’s discretion.

  Sullivan stared at him expectantly.

  Erik took another drag on his cigarette and peered out over the compound.

  ‘Listen kid, spare me the fucking intrigue. I’m tired, I’m hungry. Spit it out.’

  Erik glanced sideways at Sullivan and plucked the cigarette from his lips.

  ‘Just a hunch, I guess.’

  Sullivan scoffed.

  ‘Don’t waste my time with conjecture.’

  Erik looked offended; it didn’t escape Sully’s notice.

  He searched Erik’s face for clues.

  ‘We’ve got nothing but time to waste,’ Erik retorted.

  Sullivan turned back to face the wasteland.

  Undeterred, Erik began.

  ‘I’ve been watching the shed for days.’

  Sullivan knew where this was going.

  ‘No one ever goes in or out,’ Erik continued. ‘Never during daylight hours and they never open the gate without a wide perimeter, guards stationed everywhere.’

  Sullivan shifted slightly in his seat, unblinking.

  ‘Don’t you find that strange?’ Erik chided.

  He paused for emphasis, waited for an apologetic look from Sullivan for the earlier slight.

  When none was forthcoming, he continued.

  ‘It’s empty. Shelves upon shelves of nothing but dust.’

  Sullivan weighed the reasoning. In truth, he had come to the same conclusion several days past, at least since the last round of ration cuts, but had hoped to convince himself otherwise.

  Resigned to the debate, Sully asked plainly –

  ‘So, why do you think they’d want to keep that quiet?’

  Erik took a thoughtful drag on his cigarette.

  ‘Wouldn’t accomplish anything, just stir the place up,’ he offered.

  ‘That’s right,’ Sullivan stated, punctuating the statement with a piercing glance. ‘We’re at the boiling point already.’

  As he turned back to the compound, Sullivan finished their conversation.